Brad Davis is from San Diego, California. He has an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and has taught at The Stony Brook School (NY), Eastern Connecticut State University, the College of the Holy Cross (MA), and Pomfret School (CT) where he was the founding editor of Broken Bridge Review and the Broken Bridge Folio Series. His own poems have appeared in The Paris Review, Poetry, DoubleTake, Image, Michigan Quarterly Review, Tar River Poetry, Connecticut Review, Puerto del Sol, Ascent, and other journals. In 1995, a poem of his won an AWP Intro Journal Award; in 2005, his chapbook Short List of Wonders won the Sunken Garden Poetry Prize (selected by Dick Allen); and in 2009, a poem of his won the IAM (International Arts Movement) Poetry Award (selected by Brett Lott). Brad is married to Deb; they have a son John who lives with his wife Mariko in Brooklyn (NY).
Breaking News: the poem "Praise Him" (from Like Those Who Dream) just came out in an anthology of poetry and prose that engages with the New Atheism. The book is GOD IS DEAD AND I DON'T FEEL SO GOOD MYSELF, published by Cascade Books (2010). The poem is the lead-off piece in the book.
Click here to read a major review of all four books in the Opening King David series, published in the journal Christianity & Literature, Summer 2009; and here for a stellar review in ForeWord magazine.
Click here to read four sample poems.
Click here to view Brad Davis’ upcoming events.
Click here to read ancillary material in the Seminar Room.
For other books in the Opening King David series, see the Antrim House catalog.
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May the Maker of heaven and earth bless you.
Hitler breathed and Khrushchev and
of those radioactive atoms passing
so are wisdom and beauty, the breath
I wish now a teacher had told us that this
Have mercy, O Lord, have mercy.
We were like those who dreamed.
for Lucy et al.
I pictured the six of you arm-in-arm
over your shoulders, the latest monsoon
Here, a half-dozen chimney swifts cavort
to the suffering you have called home
refugees Kampuchea, Bangladesh,
we lost touch, an icon of the good dream.
out boxes from closets, you found my letter,
thought to bring me up to speed. Has it been
your second paragraph. I had to read it
the six of you on holiday in Thailand,
of college life and school in Chiang Mai, all
Which is when, like Herod’s goons in Bedlam,
“Life is strange,” you wrote. “The children ran
google Robin Needham.” So I did.
found after five days by Nat, your oldest,
cut a path through the dense tangle of crap
where all our long silences wanted
|When my spirit grows faint within me…
initiative and at her own expense,
removed and sent upstate for repairs.
small, staid, and aging, hardly
as we choristers processed all wide-eyed
plastic over the empty frames playing
jitterbugging on the altar. She led
of the world depended on our singing
was my kind of spiritual madness how
and required of us laughter. Quite unlike
that she be dressed in eucharistic finery,
But he could not grant her the dying wish
over whiskey to her funeral director
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